


Dark Hunter

by BitterlyByronic (A_Little_Bit_Broken)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen, M/M, canon adjacent
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-16
Updated: 2018-10-25
Packaged: 2018-12-03 00:08:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11520405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Little_Bit_Broken/pseuds/BitterlyByronic
Summary: Angels are not the sweet visions most people imagine. Dean Winchester knows this, but are they as dangerous as he's been led to believe? They're supposed to kill with thought or mercy, viewing humans as no more than chattel to do with as they wish. Why then did they raise him from hell and why does Castiel seem so invested in him?--Castiel had heard the stories. Every angel had; but he had never believed there could be those who could push back the dark. Until he encounters Dean Winchester, whose soul is the brightest he's ever seen and who thrusts him into a world of light and humanity he never anticipated.





	1. Prologue

_The Nephilim were on the earth in those days -- and also afterward -- when the sons of God went to the daughters of man and had children by them. They were heroes of old, men of great renown._

_Genesis 6: 4_

 

There are things Dean remembers when he reflects on his younger days that make him believe that Mary Winchester knew exactly the trajectory the lives of her boys were going to take. He remembers her curled around him on his small twin bed long after the sun had set, her skin damp with sweat where he pressed into her and only the glow of the night light pushing back the night, as she told him stories of dark creatures that lurked in the shadows where humans feared to walk and the heroes who protected the innocent from them. He remembers being scared, worried the monsters would find him when there was no one around to protect him, no one around to help. He remembers sweeping stories that seemed too big, too real to let him settle into sleep, after. He remembers her smiling, ever so softly, pulling him closer and telling him he had nothing to fear when it came to monsters lurking in the dark, because he would always be protected -- that he had angels watching over him.

He remembers the stories of the angels, the most powerful of them all; allies to the human heroes, all of them fighting side by side, so that the humans who did not have to bear the knowledge, that did not have to assume mantels of protection could sleep easily in their beds, none the wiser to the turmoil lurking in the darkness all around them. He remembers her distant eyes, remembers her tracing lines and whorls on the skin of his arm and palm as she spoke -- the name of his angel, she said. He remembers her teaching him to create those same lines and curves on paper when it was again light, repeating them with him until they were perfect. He couldn’t read them -- it wasn’t letters like he learnt in school, so he didn’t know what sounds the shapes made but he had liked tracing them, did so every night before he went to sleep. It had felt like his own little spell, calling to his angel to watch over him, to protect him from the monsters in the dark. To protect Mary, and John, and, eventually, his new little baby brother Sam and keep them all safe.

And then there was the fire and he was safe and there was John and Sam but there was no Mary and Dean had wondered why, if his angel was supposed to be so powerful, he hadn’t gotten them all out. It was a long time before he had realised that there wasn’t anything that could have been done because Mary _saw_. In the same way that Sam had, by then, started to see, only she saw farther than Sam ever seemed to, into the long distance of all possible futures, and so, she had given him stories to hold onto because she knew she wouldn’t be there to hold and no matter how powerful the angel, some fates couldn’t be avoided.

And so he had held onto those stories -- still holds onto them if he’s being really honest -- took comfort in them, even as, for him, the monsters stepped out the shadows, even as the mantle of protection settled more and more heavily on his shoulders the older he got. Even when he had been bruised and bloodied and broken and there seemed to be no one looking out, seemed to be no _angels watching over him_ , he had held on. But then he’d found out the truth about angels, about how they had fallen into the dark and murk with all the things they used to fight against, and he’d been so disappointed, his trust battered and very nearly broken.

He'd stopped believing then; in the grace of God and in beings watching out for him. He'd stopped tracing lines and whorls -- that name his own little spell -- absently into available surfaces with the pads of his fingers, unable to convince himself any longer that there was anything that would come of it.

He'd lived his life one day at a time from then one, tried to protect his family, keep them together as best he could (with mixed results). And then he died; which was expected. And then he came back; which was _not_ and shook him and his beliefs to the core.


	2. Chapter 2

Bracing with his arms on the counter, Dean watches, bleary eyed, the slow drip of coffee into the carafe, fingers tapping impatiently as he waits for it to fill enough so he can pour a cup, and maybe, just maybe, rouse himself enough to get through the day stretching out, long and daunting in front of him. 

He sighs, lets his head hang loose on his neck, closes his eyes. God, he’s tired. He feels it in his very bones, in a way he never has before, not even after the most strenuous, most gruelling of hunts and it’s getting hard to keep it inside. 

He knows he’s physically better than he’s been in years; all the old breaks and scars had been wiped away when he was brought back. It was as if he’d never hunted a day in his life; had never been hurt; but he still doesn’t know what _happened_ , and damn, if that doesn’t have him mentally screwed up. He hasn’t been able to get a good night’s sleep in days, strange dreams plaguing him where he can’t tell up from down, where he’s surrounded by threatening figures that feel like they’re trying to rip him apart one moment and then wrapped up in an almost searingly protective warmth that seems to be blocking out everything else the next. It's terrifying and confusing and leaves him gasping and disorientated in the dark when he's inevitably dragged from sleep. He’s running on empty and it’s starting to wear on him and he knows he can’t work like this; can’t hunt. He’s becoming a liability and soon enough, Sam and Bobby are going to pick up on it and he’s going to get benched. At this point, he’s not sure it won’t be a good idea. After all, who knows what was done to him, what was put into him to bring him back whole.

“Hey.” 

Dean stiffens, turns at the sound of Sam’s voice. He looks nearly as bleary as Dean, hair a mess, and shirt rumpled from a night sleeping on top of research. He yawns into a fist, bouncing off the wall as he makes his way into the kitchen and Dean manages to crack a smile at the sight of him. 

“Hey,” he responds, turning back to the coffee before Sam can pull himself together enough to get to it. He grabs a mug and fills it for himself, before settling the carafe back into place. Predictably, Sam starts grumbling and Dean doctors his coffee and sips it, feeling the tension in his body easing just a little, feeling himself settle into the grooves of his old routines in a way he hasn’t in a long time. 

After he’d made the deal, everything had been on a countdown and he’d tried to pack so much living into those few months that he’d always felt frantic on the inside, knowing he’d never be ready when the time came. And he wasn't. Dear god, he wasn't. In hell… in hell, time had been strange, stretched out and molasses slow one moment and rushing past the next; one instance folding back into the one before until you couldn’t be sure what came first and what had come after. He’d never truly been able to keep track, though he tried his best to keep even an approximate time and when he’d slipped into decades… He’d never thought he would have any of this again and, as worried as he is that they still don’t have any idea what had had the juice to pull him out of hell or why it’d been done, he’s still so grateful he gets to have this again. Gets to wake up and see Sam’s bitchfaces and hear him complain about how much of a inconsiderate ass Dean is for taking all the coffee when Sam's _right there too_. Gets to see people he cares about, gets to fight for those who can’t defend themselves from the monsters in the dark.

“Got a case?” Dean asks, sipping obnoxiously on his coffee and breaking into Sam’s muttering. Sam glares at him, mulishly pulls down a cup for himself and shakes his head. 

“No, just looking into some stuff. Nothing that’s panned out so far. I’ll let you know when a case comes up.”

Dean raises an eyebrow. He knows Sam and he knows he isn’t going to pull an all-nighter like that unless he’s _looking_ for something, but apparently he doesn’t want to share his case with Dean. That’s… fine. Not a big deal at all. Dean grits his teeth and determinedly tries to ignore the voice in his head telling him it’s the start of a very big deal. He doesn't have any reason not to trust Sam and while Sam’d been understandably wary to start with -- this is their life, after all, and, as both Winchesters and hunters, this kind of luck is highly suspect -- but after the requisite testing to make sure he wasn't any kind of supernatural creature that needed to be taken care of, he'd been ecstatic to have his brother back. Dean tells himself not to think about it. Sam’s a nerd who likes learning things. He’ll talk to Dean about whatever it was, if and when he needs to.

“Dean.” Sam’s voice is carefully even in a way that says it’s masking some other emotion. 

Dean looks up and Sam’s staring at a point below his ear. Following his sight line, Dean sees his own hand gripping tight at his shoulder. He hadn’t even realised he was doing it. He forces himself to let go, to drop his hand to his side. Sam meets his eyes; doesn’t say anything. 

Dean doesn’t need him to. He’s been touching the handprint all the time since he came back. He wants to say it’s because it’s the only scar he has now, that it still hurts, itching as it heals over, but, in truth, he doesn’t even feel it. He just can’t stop _touching_ it. Sam’s convinced it’s a brand, tying him to whatever pulled him out of the pit and some days Dean’s inclined to agree. There might not be sensation in a physical sense but some days Dean’s sure he feels that touch in his very soul. He clenches his hand into a fist. Taking one last swig of coffee, he sets the cup in the sink. “If you need me, I’ll be outside.”

“Dean, yo--” 

Dean lifts a hand, cutting Sam off and leaving the room before he changes his mind about listening to Dean. He really doesn't want to have any heart to hearts.

He heads outside. It's still early enough in the morning that there's a slight chill to the air, the sun not out long enough or strong enough yet to burn away the cool, light fog that had formed overnight. He stands there, considers his options. The Impala is clean, inside and out, locked up securely in one of the sheds. He's spent a lot of mornings since he's been back looking after her, trying to sublimate the jagged anxiety caused by his dreams and not really knowing how and why he was back into making his baby look beautiful -- and undo the sheer atrocities Sam’s put her through trying to ‘just bring it a little into current day, Dean. God, relax.’ It’s been accomplished though and now he's at a bit of a loss.

Rolling his shoulders, Dean heads for the garage. There’re a few junkers outside it that can be recovered with a lot of elbow grease and a little love. He doesn't think Bobby will complain if he gets a head start on them. There are surely always hunters in need of an innocuous car outfitted for the needs of their job after all.

Dean is elbow deep in the engine of an old Honda when Bobby makes his way over, crunching over gravel. Dean pretends not to notice, continuing to hum along to the music spilling tinnily from the beat up radio he's set up on the workbench. Bobby waits him out, leaning against the side of the car and staring out onto the junkyard. 

Dean barely lasts a minute. 

“What?” he asks, just a shade snappish, pulling his head out from under the hood and bracing his hands on the front of the car.

Bobby scowls at him. “Don't start with me, boy. I know it hasn't been easy for you but you aren't the only one dealing with this.”

Dean wants to argue. After all, _he's_ the one that went to Hell for godsake. He's the one that has to live with that, has to live with the memories, the choices. He's seen Sam though, seen how he looks at Dean like he can't believe he's real, like he's fighting the urge to reach out and touch, just to make sure. He's heard the stories of what happened while he was in Hell; how far off the rails Sam went. He knows he's not the only one trying to get a handle on everything. They're just trying from different ends.

Dean sighs, pushes away from the car and grabs a rag to wipe the dirt and grease off his hands. “Sorry,” he mutters.

Bobby looks him over and huffs. “Just cut the kid some slack. He's maybe not dealing with exactly same as you but he's dealing too.”

“Okay,” Dean nods back, and Bobby stares him down for a second before nodding once, seemingly satisfied. 

“Good, now come on inside,” he says, pushing off the car and starting back to the house. “Got a message over the radio that sounds like it might be a good case for getting you boys back out there.”

Dean tosses the rag and quickly clears up. A case sounds like just the thing to settle him back in. Get back to his roots -- saving people, hunting things -- and everything would be back to normal in no time. 

He heads after Bobby up to the house, wondering what exactly he's got for them this time.


	3. Chapter 3

“I used to dream about you, you know.” 

Dean looks up at Sam, at the way he’s staring hard at his hands, white knuckled in his lap, as he pointedly doesn’t meet Dean’s eyes. 

They’re staying the night in another forgettable motel room, fresh off the hunt, treading a groove they’d worn out years ago but that feels different now to Dean; like a suit that no longer fits quite right. He doesn't know what he’s supposed to do with that. Doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do with Sam.

The case had turned out to be a relatively simple haunting. There had been no body but they had managed to find the object of the attachment in time to prevent anyone else from being killed, though there would be physical and mental scars for those that had been involved. 

Dean had hoped that the stress and hours on the case would have worn him out but he’d had no such luck. He’d gone through the motions when they’d gotten back to the hotel. Had cleaned up and changed. Had crawled into bed and tried to keep still on his side of the room, resisting the urge to toss and turn as he tried to find sleep through the noise and mess in his head. He’d been unsuccessful for hours; until the strain of trying to keep the pretense had actually sent him into a fitful sleep in the close hours before dawn. It had been shallow, not deep enough to allow him real rest, but enough to allow the images, the dreams -- he refused to think of them as nightmares -- to tug at him. It was stranger than usual. He was close enough to the surface to know they weren’t real but that knowledge didn’t stop his reaction to them, didn’t stop the fear creeping over his skin and into his lungs and heart. Didn’t stop him reacting in the most visceral of ways. He’d woken soaked to the skin and clammy with sweat, a cry fading into the air around him. 

His eyes had searched out Sam, found him sitting on the edge of his bed, elbows braced on his knees and hands folded together in front of his mouth. He hadn’t looked at Dean then, and hasn’t looked at him since. 

He tries hard not feel unsettled, tries not to think of the display Sam just witnessed or what his words really mean. What he’s potentially seen already in his dreams. Swallowing, he leans forward, braces his elbows and takes a breath. 

“Dream about me how,” he asks, though he doesn’t want to know. He already knows.

Sam laughs, short and sharp. “How do you think?” He jabs a finger hard against his temple. “So many nights, watching you fucking twist and scream, and I couldn’t even do anything. I didn’t even _know._ I thought they were just nightmares. Just my guilt building an image. I didn’t even consider that they might be visions.” 

“Sam,” Dean starts, not sure what he’s going to say, but not up for listening to Sam blame himself for something he didn’t have a hand in. 

Sam cuts him off. “I’m not saying it for any sympathy. I’m just saying I _know_. I wasn’t there and I didn’t go through it, so I can’t say I understand it fully or even that I ever will, but I have a piece of it and it was so messed up, Dean. What they did to you…You’re not okay.” Dean opens his mouth to deny it, to say he’s fine, but Sam glares him down.

“You are not okay,” he repeats, a little more forcefully. “And I wish you’d stop pretending that you are. This isn’t something you walk off. You’re allowed to show emotion about this. You can talk to me.”

Dean laughs, the sound rough and harsh; ragged to his own ears. “I really can’t.” 

Sam draws breath and Dean holds up a hand, cuts him off. “I appreciate the thought but, for this, trust me, I’m not just avoiding the chick flick moments. I really just…” Dean sighs, tries to think of how best to word it. He mirrors Sam, two commas, separated but curved towards each other. 

“It’s too close,” he finally manages, the words breaking out of him of their own accord, before he even realised they were waiting to come. “I think trying to talk about it now, trying to _think_ about it like that right now would… break me down.”

Sam frowns. “You’re not dealing now, though,” he counters.

“No,” Dean agrees, honest for this one fragile moment, in this one instance muted of colour and full of life and truth before the sun and the day assert themselves and take their toll. “But I think I’m doing the best I can right now with all of this, and I’m going to keep going until I can’t.”

Sam sighs, but doesn’t press further and Dean breathes in deep and grateful. They stay unmoving and quiet for a long time, letting the air settle around them. Eventually, Sam stretches, rolls out his shoulders. 

“I’m going back to sleep,” he states. “I suggest you try the same. God knows, neither of us did much of it last night.”

Dean wants to argue that he’s fine; that one cup of coffee and he’d be good to start the day, ready to head back to Bobby’s, but he knows Sam is right. He definitely needs to sleep, especially considering how hard it has been, even discounting last night. He huffs and, in silent symmetry, they crawl back into their respective beds to try again at sleeping. 

Just a few hours, Dean thinks as he curls up, turned away from Sam, he just needs a few hours of actual rest and he’ll be able to deal with all of this with a clear head. He’s not sure he’ll get it but he hopes. God, does he hope.

 

It’s a week and a half later, when they’re back at Bobby’s, that Sam barges into Dean’s room in the middle of the night, looking wild and harried. Dean’s hunter’s instinct has him grabbing the gun from under his pillow and pointing it at Sam before he’s really registered what’s going on. 

“What the hell, dude?” he barks, when his brain catches up to the rest of him.

Sam ignores his words and his gun. He doesn’t look totally with it and Dean is up and out of bed in seconds, dropping the gun on his bedside table and pushing Sam to sit on the bed. He snaps his fingers in front of Sam’s face, trying to get him to focus. “Come on back, Sam, you gotta let me know what you saw.” 

It takes a few seconds but finally Sam looks up and meets his eyes. He hesitates.“I’m not sure,” he finally manages, raising his hands and dropping them again, looking a little bit helpless.

It reminds Dean of when Sam was still a kid and didn’t yet have the words to explain what exactly it was that he was seeing, what exactly it meant.

Dean can tell he’s still processing but it’s hard to not be a little frustrated. He’d finally been managing to get some deeply needed sleep and he knows that’s gone now. There’s no way he’s getting back to sleep after this. Resigned to it, he puts his hands on either side of Sam’s face, pressing a bit and trying to ground him. 

“You know how to do this, Sammy. Don’t force it.”

Sam nods and breathes deep, closing his eyes and going almost lax in Dean’s hands. After about a minute, he opens his eyes again. 

“We need to help.” He still sounds hesitant but Dean can tell he’s back in reality now. “I’m not sure what’s going to happen but it’s important. We need to be there. I- We need to leave now.”

Dean sighs and moves to drop onto the bed beside Sam. He rubs tiredly at his eyes. “Seriously?” 

He feels Sam shift beside him and, when he looks up, Sam is giving him the eyes. “I’ll drive,” he offers. “I don’t think I know exactly where we’re going. I’ll drive and you can sleep.”

Dean wants to protest, wants to say he doesn’t trust Sam with his baby but this is an old tread. Sometimes it’s just easier to let Sam’s visions lead him than to try and follow them himself. “Fine,” he sighs. “Anything special you think we need to take with?”

Sam pauses; thinks. He shakes his head. “We’ll have everything we need.”

Dean nods. “Great. Now get out. I’ll meet you at the car in 15.” 

Sam doesn’t respond, just leaves. Dean runs a hand through his hair and gets up to get ready. Looks like they have a job on their hands. Good times.

 

Sam’s waiting by the car when he gets outside after leaving a not for Bobby letting him know where they’ve disappeared to. He’s got his head in the trunk and is examining their weapons. 

“You sure we don’t need anything special?” Dean confirms again.

“We have everything we can. We’ll get what we need when we get there.”

Dean raises an eyebrow but he’s used to how cryptic the visions can make Sam sometimes. “Whatever you say. Let’s go then.”

He climbs into the back seat while Sam shuts the trunk and climbs into the driver’s seat. Dean wants to remind him not hurt so much as a hair on the Impala but he’s too tired. He’s out within minutes when they finally turn onto the highway. 


	4. Chapter 4

There is just over an hour until dawn; just over an hour until the sun would crest the curve of the horizon and wash the world in golden, fiery light, warming all it touched with its heat and flame. When it came it would hand the earth over to the diurnal but, until then, the world still belonged to the creatures of the night and there are things hiding in the dark that need to be revealed and purged. 

Castiel shifts his eyes to the horizon, letting his gaze linger for a moment on the slowly lightening skies, before turning his attention back to the building across from the decrepit one from which he is currently keeping watch. The entire area around him is squalid, buildings dilapidated and disused, dirt and filth clinging to everything and casting a grey and grimy film that seemed to pervade even into the very air -- it is just the sort of place he would expect his prey to take refuge. It is much easier to hide a stain of darkness in an area that has already been deeply marred, after all. Add to that the strange absence of any of the typical animal life -- not even rodents ran in the sewers twisting beneath the streets -- in the immediate vicinity, and the curious blank spot in the energy of the earth below the building across the way, and Castiel's bells had gone off like klaxons when he'd initially swept over the area. 

He is cutting it close, he knows, but he feels certain that he has tracked the Grigori to its true lair. As it stands, even with the limited time, he is positive he can unravel the wards and safeguards on the lair and do away with the Gregori before the dawn comes to force them to ground. And, even if he cannot... Well, it hardly matters as he has already chosen his fate. He will simply force the Grigori to greet the dawn with him. Either way, he will be able to perform one final deed worthy of his place among his brothers and sisters before he leaves the world with a warrior's honour; choosing to brave the light of day, rather than succumbing to the darkness that grows stronger within him with each passing day, and which is becoming harder and harder to fight. He will remove the vile stain his former brethren now spread across this land and then accept his chosen fate with dignity, rather than risk becoming one of the poisonous creatures he has spent so many years hunting.

Resolve strengthened, Castiel shifts, releasing his human form and taking on the form of a large owl. Shaking out his feathers, he takes to the skies. Burying his grace’s signature deep within the form of the bird, in case the Grigori is scanning the area, Castiel performs his own reconnaissance, feeling out the area itself as well as probing carefully at the building, finding, and gently testing, the Grigori's safeguards, taking care not to damage or disturb the threads of magic holding them together and, thus, prematurely alert the fallen to his presence. It will become obvious when he starts undoing the wards but he prefers his prey have as little warning as possible to reduce the ability to launch an effective counter-attack.

The complexity with which the threads of magic have been woven is impressive but it is hardly the most difficult tapestry of wards and protections that Castiel has ever encountered. It will take some time to undo them but Castiel is confident he can withstand whatever the Grigori throws at him while he works. They will have their battle yet, this day.

Satisfied with his assessment, Castiel shifts from owl to grace, floating carefully down towards the building, moving slowly enough as to not arouse notice. The doors and windows are all tightly guarded but close examination reveals a few hairline cracks in the roof that had seemingly gone unnoticed by the Grigori when he'd been setting the wards. Slipping through one that works all the way through the thickness of the ceiling, Castiel finds himself in a large, disused space. Broken machinery litters the floor, hulking, rusted shapes covered in heavy layers of dust. The whole place looks as if it hasn't been touched in some time, possibly years, but Castiel knows better. Letting his senses reach out, he searches for the source of the blank of energy he had noted earlier. It’s a problem with shielding your presence: cover up too little and you’re easily found, cover up too much and the lack of anything created just a large a flag as not hiding at all. To be truly effective shields need to skirt a fine middle ground.

His senses telling him to head lower, Castiel drifts towards the stairs, moving carefully. He’s managed to avoid having to deal with the safeguards on the entrances but, now, he encounters one he can’t bypass, at the door at the foot of the stairs. Resigned to giving away his presence, and preparing for the onslaught that will come with the Grigori sensing him, Castiel goes to work. Letting the magic of the warding flow through him, he shifts back to his human form and waves his hands to make the wards visible. There are multiple layers, flowing back into and over each other. Finding the end of the threads, Castiel starts unravelling them, ignoring the burn to his grace to be this close as he follows the path taken to create them backwards.

A yell sounds in the distance, almost animalistic in its rage, the sound of the Grigori finally catching on to his presence, and the ground heaves beneath Castiel's feet as it tries to dislodge him and distract him from his purpose. Moving with the interruption, Castiel keeps going, fingers and hands waving in the air in a complex dance as he directs his grace in an attempt to undo primordial magic without setting off the traps hidden within the Grigori's protections, ready to do damage to any that missed them.

The building shakes ominously around him, the walls and roof trembling, bits of plaster and concrete breaking off to fall around him, more than a few pieces requiring him to shift out the way to avoid being hit. Setting his mouth in a grim line, Castiel ignores the attempted distraction, refusing to be affected so easily. He’s making good progress when the ground explodes upwards in a geyser of dirt and rocks mere inches from his feet. Castiel ignores it for the moment as he works at a particularly difficult section of ward. When he gets it, he glances across long enough to see insects swarming from the created hole, all headed towards him. Pausing only long enough to throw up a barrier of his own, Castiel forces himself to work faster. The Grigori has stirred and Castiel can feel it undoing the guards that holds it into its sleeping chamber. He has to be quick or he will lose his advantage.

The acrid smell of char fills the air as the insects collide with Castiel's barrier, the wards setting them aflame. Ordinarily, the scent would have more than irritated Castiel's sensitive sense of smell but, as it is, he is so focused on his current task that it barely registers as a nuisance. He’s down to the final layers of the safeguards and he presses himself, pulling, tugging, and unwinding threads of magic until, finally, the last one releases, causing the entire construct to dissipate as if it had never been.

Triumphant, Castiel shifts back to grace and streaks through the newly open entrance, heading further down, arriving in a basement level. The air is thick, heavy with the promise of poison and death. Hesitant to touch down, Castiel remains in grace form. This is the Grigori's sleeping chamber, but Castiel knows there will be another, larger room, filled with dead and dying humans that the Grigori has been feeding from. There will be nothing Castiel can do for them but put them out of their misery, but he can make sure no more are taken. He can avenge.

Castiel can feel it working its way to the surface, sliding past the last of its safeguards. Pulling to a corner, he waits, readying for the clash about to begin.

It's mere seconds before the earth opens in front of him and the Grigori breaks free of its earthen tomb to stand before him. It lands lightly on its feet, arms open and face bearing a welcoming smile. "Castiel, my friend. It has been a long time."

Castiel wants to feel shocked, or surprised, and maybe he would have, if such emotions were still been available to him, but, as it is, he can only feel the remembered echoes of disappointment and sorrow that not only will he have to take the life of one who had once been one of his people but also one he once would have called kin, even if they had never been close. 

"Zachariah," he replies stiffly, shifting back to his human form in preparation of their face off. "I really would have expected better from you. We share a creed. You are meant to be elite. We are meant to be stronger than the pull."

Zachariah smiles even wider, seemingly amused, and though he seems well put together, healthy and strong underneath his unassuming facade, Castiel knows what that illusion hides; can sense the power Zachariah holds. It’s obvious he turned long ago and, if that’s the case, his true visage will be all the more diseased and rotten. Castiel can sense the blackness of his Grace, the thoroughness of the taint. There is nothing holy left in him anymore. Castiel can just imagine the sloughing, peeling skin, the exposed bone, the yellowed talon-like nails, the brown and bloodstained teeth, all sharpened to fangs, that would be Zachariah’s actual human form at this point. Feeding on humans, _killing_ them, is poisonous and the sight of a Grigori's true face always reveals that. The choice they’ve made is one that destroys them from the inside and the evidence becomes harder to mistake the more lives they take.

"Oh, Castiel," Zachariah sighs, his tone reminiscent of that of someone speaking to a particularly dim-witted child. “None of us are stronger than the pull. It’s just some of us aren’t willing to actually admit it.” 

He moves then, slowly, prowling to the side. Castiel mirrors him, moving more into the centre of the room. He keeps his senses on alert. There are traps here, he knows. Zachariah has always been that type. He prefers to manipulate and control from the outside than using direct attacks. He would never be seen to clearly make the first move. 

“You’re wrong. If you were worthy of your place among the host you would not have fallen.” 

Zachariah chuckles. “You mean like yourself?” He shakes his head. “You may not have fed yet, Castiel but I think we both know it’s only semantics at this point if you’re one of theirs or one of ours.” 

“I’ll never be one of yours, I’d rather die,” Castiel growls.

Zachariah tilts his head and grins. “That can certainly be arranged.” 

Castiel manages to dodge a split second before two walls of hard packed dirt push on on either side of where he had been and slam into each other. He glares at Zachariah, who only looks amused. “Very well,” he says, summoning his angel blade. “We will do this the hard way.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Sooo yea. I've been wanting to write this for a while. It's all plotted just end to get the time to write and edit everything. Hopefully it'll be a fun ride :)


End file.
